He is mortified.
O to be like the ants, who
When speeding ‘long their path
Upon encountering a comrade in line
Meet them a kiss of greeting
Before continuing their work.
I remark at the smoothness of their communication!
Alas, I am doomed
To be a thinking thinking boy.
He is mortified.
O to be like the trees, which
When sprouting yonder heights
Upon discov’ry of dry dirt, swamping rains
Meet timidity their roots
Before siphoning nutrients.
I remark at the vitality of their majesty!
Alas, I am doomed
To be a weary weary boy.
Acts of fear foster death
In basins of intercourse,
In the soil of the soul.
Those begot to fear
Breathe yet deceased
And expect the corruption in themselves
To manifest ’round every corner.
But though cowards act cruelest,
Drooling o’er their taste buds
The bitter saliva which springs
From a horseradish heart,
The waters avalanche out of the peak
Down both the mountain’s faces.
Therefore the man’s face seeks
No summit, sate to accept
Nature’s omnipresent folly;
He fears first and thinks next
So as to conclude what he ought
Where he ought –
Like the trees, which,
Grand, gnarled and settled to die,
Garner strength from evil nerves –
Like the ants, who,
Steady, busy and hurried to live
Attest no cause to collapse and moan
The Wise Ry Guy 